My world changed drastically. I was no longer a little girl with bows, toys and dolls. My siblings were a nightmare. My friends at school were only to whisper about us. We were unwelcome into their homes. A Society was to recognize this as disgraceful, and were terrified. Rarely was there a murder in those days. The closeness of family ties was just that. So, we were the overnight outcasts. I remember hearing an old uncle at the funeral quietly gossiping with neighbors in front of the casket. He said, "How can she cry over him like that, He ran around all the time on her". Not a care that I was sitting right next to him . I ran to tell my mom what he said. Of course, I was lying! He said so!
The righteousness of the chosen in a society that can strangle the life out of you. Thankfully, we had Grandma and Grandpa. They were immigrants from Italy. And Grampa would tell us stories of his life back in the old country. He had a sheep farm and dreamed of coming to America. He told of how long it took to arrive here on the boat. A child born on the boat after what was almost a year on board. Then docking at Ellis Island and being detained for almost six months. Disease control, small pox, innoculations But most of all a pride that someone was going to pick them up as their sponsors in America. Times have certainly changed. And they were humble and grateful for the hopes of their future in a land that promised so many opportunities.
I loved my grandparents, they were so cuddly. Gramps had a wide moustache, almost white and he would sort of spit on the ends of it to give the appearance of two points in an antennea effect. Grandma loved to cook you could smell her sauce and meatballs throughout the neighborhood. She used to wear an apron all the time. And in the little pocket of it, there would be pieces of candy for us. She would say "Come see whats in this pocket" And with a quick smile I would rush over to her in hopes of getting only the red ones! And the times when I would cry I would lay my head on grandma's cushey lap and she would pat my back and whisper, "I know little suzy, taint fair, taint fair"
Friday, April 6, 2007
Wednesday, April 4, 2007
The Englishman
What I remember of him up until the age of 8 yrs old. My dad was over 6' tall, handsome, English decendent with blonde hair and blue eyes. Full of fun and a lust for life and women. Couldnt keep that man down and he couldnt stop drinking. There were four brothers and two sisters. I dont know how they all found each other after being placed in an orphanage when they were youngsters. Never growing up together they were all alcoholics and each one had a terrible life and death. My Mom used to tell the story how an old bitty, wealthy aunt in England put a curse on the family. With that story thats a trail to live by, especially if they drank the curse would follow. Some of those old people sure knew how to screw with someone. So, one of those especially sneak nights out on the town with his girlfriend. The one who was going to leave her husband, and he who wasnt about to give up his ravishing slut were caught in a bar drinking their blues away. Husband raging with jealousy walks in with his pistol, doesnt shoot his wife, of course shoots dad. Not once but three times. Two in the back and One in the chest as he turns around to face his accuser. He lay in ICU for three days, and that woman came up to see him in front of my Mother. I dont understand why she didnt throw her out of that room. In those days children were not allowed in the hospital. I got lucky to see him, because my brother and I were at home playing at the time. We were holding this long piece of string and he was cutting it in pieces until he got to the end and cut off the tip of my finger. Until this day my index finger sticks up to a pointy edge. Anyway, I was whisked off to the emergency room bleeding to death, well it looked like it. The doctor in emergency wanted to stitch it and I wouldnt let him. Then I was promised if I did let him sew up my finger I could go and see daddy in his hospital room .
Through the eyes of a child! There in this huge dark long and wide room , the only light on was the one over his bed. I was only allowed to stand at the doorway. I didnt know why he was there, I only knew he was very sick. I yelled to him and I held up this huge bandaged finger. Daddy, look at me. Look at what Billy did. Daddy will you look, he never did.
Through the eyes of a child! There in this huge dark long and wide room , the only light on was the one over his bed. I was only allowed to stand at the doorway. I didnt know why he was there, I only knew he was very sick. I yelled to him and I held up this huge bandaged finger. Daddy, look at me. Look at what Billy did. Daddy will you look, he never did.
Sunday, April 1, 2007
You Never Asked Me
My Mother was a great woman, she loved us as best she knew how. All four of us, and I was the oldest when my father was brutally murdered at the young age of 29 yrs. old. So, there she was at 28 yrs old and four kids to raise. In those days everyone was poor at least everyone that we knew. The days of depression were never kind to us. Iknow this is a story that I have always wanted to write, but never could! Can you imagine to go a whole lifetime and keep it all inside. All of it, because who really wants to listen to someone else's problems. And better yet, I was embarassed my whole life because of it. Now I have somwhat come this far and I can finally talk about it.
My Mom throughout those hard years would often say to us "I should have given you all up for adoption at that time" The Social Workers asked me if I wanted to but I just couldnt. I always wondered what that would have been like. A new home, a family, food to eat, a bed of my own. What is this adoption thing? Is this an answer for all of us who are basically becoming the "Dysfunctional" galley of madness. How do children cope with this. Fact is they never do and they cry from places where no one is allowed to go. Better yet, we dont even ask you for sympathy or understanding you could never feel how we feel. And yet most do not ask because it takes to much time to deal with the problems that each one of us had and still do. Life doesnt change all that much. A therapist would tell you if you dont get off the train you will ride the same tracks forever. What the hell does Ms. Stanford University Grad know about what it takes if anything to get off the beaten path. And you get beat up enough, its common practice to expect it. AT times I felt like a martyr, I was little Ms Mom and she owned me. You learn how to be independent, secretive of yourself, your feelings and you never step out of the cacoon you made just for you to hide in. That little place that is yours alone, wrapped up as tight as canned spam. I learned to feel very sorry for my mother, she worked two jobs raising us. I took care of my brothers. One who had turned 1yr. old when my father died. Oh yes, I was called to the hospital that night when he was in ICU. Its rather strange how you look at things when you are a kid, you see with your own eyes which is enough of a great picture. Then you listen to the gossip outside of it all. It is the gossip that never leaves you, the sadness of your world dramatically bowling over into torrment. I used to hear her cry every night for over a year. And the most frightening thing that I never forgot is how she nailed down those old windows so no one will get in. Her fears became mine and the lightening and thunder made me run into the closet and still to this day that is where I am in the storm. She was terrified of those electrical storms and would cover the windows with sheets so we wouldnt see that much of it.
Tomorrow, tomorrow
My Mom throughout those hard years would often say to us "I should have given you all up for adoption at that time" The Social Workers asked me if I wanted to but I just couldnt. I always wondered what that would have been like. A new home, a family, food to eat, a bed of my own. What is this adoption thing? Is this an answer for all of us who are basically becoming the "Dysfunctional" galley of madness. How do children cope with this. Fact is they never do and they cry from places where no one is allowed to go. Better yet, we dont even ask you for sympathy or understanding you could never feel how we feel. And yet most do not ask because it takes to much time to deal with the problems that each one of us had and still do. Life doesnt change all that much. A therapist would tell you if you dont get off the train you will ride the same tracks forever. What the hell does Ms. Stanford University Grad know about what it takes if anything to get off the beaten path. And you get beat up enough, its common practice to expect it. AT times I felt like a martyr, I was little Ms Mom and she owned me. You learn how to be independent, secretive of yourself, your feelings and you never step out of the cacoon you made just for you to hide in. That little place that is yours alone, wrapped up as tight as canned spam. I learned to feel very sorry for my mother, she worked two jobs raising us. I took care of my brothers. One who had turned 1yr. old when my father died. Oh yes, I was called to the hospital that night when he was in ICU. Its rather strange how you look at things when you are a kid, you see with your own eyes which is enough of a great picture. Then you listen to the gossip outside of it all. It is the gossip that never leaves you, the sadness of your world dramatically bowling over into torrment. I used to hear her cry every night for over a year. And the most frightening thing that I never forgot is how she nailed down those old windows so no one will get in. Her fears became mine and the lightening and thunder made me run into the closet and still to this day that is where I am in the storm. She was terrified of those electrical storms and would cover the windows with sheets so we wouldnt see that much of it.
Tomorrow, tomorrow
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